#006 Breaking free
Take a deep breath. Inhale the stench of your surroundings. Your stench. As if thousands of pigs took a dump at the same place simultaneously and their droppings were left there to decompose. Panic, then shove your nose up your armpits to save yourself from the awful smell and realize that this is you. Relish at the thought that you’ve made it. You have indeed rotten and now you represent all that is loathsome and impure in your species.
You are one of us now.
Hospitalized in the same institution they saved for all the mentally deranged. Right here with us. So we can all witness your becoming and squeal in pure delight and pleasure and agony and pain. Unite your voice with ours and add yet another block og ugliness in this perfect world you love in. Make sure your taint is unique and be noticed and admired for it. You earned it. Your name is of little consequence. All that matters is that you are now part of a greater whole, be it Athens, New York, Tokyo, London… you name it. Walk the streets and find that there are others like you, clad in the colors of decay, brandishing the emblems of corruption, their skin carved with the symbol of the One True God: The Self. Race against the clock 24/7, heed no warning, fear no omen, until the cage is complete. You are on your own now. The others do not matter. Why should they? They have their own cages to built. Your eyes are black now, reflecting nothing but isolation and hatred and envy. You made it at last. Your skin is pale, veins showing clearly, just veins though…
And then it starts. Just a drumbeat at first, the sound increases and widens gradually, until it grows to become the song that once shaped your life. Something flickers inside you, something you took great pains to learn to ignore during your Descent. But you can’t anymore. How many years have passed? The iron bars seem to be new, polished and shining, sending all light back to where it came from. At ease, you lean the husk of flesh that used to be your body upon them and they break, revealing a rusting interior. It is breached now, and the volume of your song is magnified as the bars collapse the one after the other. Your creation is destroyed beyond your very eyes, now red, and you seem content and terrorized at the same time.
What now?
The music is unbearably loud and there is nothing to save you from it anymore. Your corpse begins to dance against your will. Bits and pieces of violet flesh detach from it, as the motion grows more and more violent with every passing second. How many of those flew by you? When was the last time you noticed? The dance takes a twist now, and you willingly fling yourself on the walls with all the strength you can muster, gathering momentum continuously. Rage as you destroy your shell, yourself. Nothing worth keeping anyway. In your final gray moment before the dead pair of black eyes fall off, leaving a lot more than just empty sockets, you realize it was all in vane. Your lids close, then burst open, revealing shimmering twin bright lights.
And the world is born anew…
#005 Before it is too late
“We need the tonic of wildness—to wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe; to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground.
At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be infinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable.
We can never have enough of nature”
Henry David Thoreau
#004 The wrong kind of alien
Those who know me, know I am somewhat of a nerd, especially when it comes to the subject of space. Those that know me well, know I am eternally regretting not studying astrophysics and finding a job in a relevant field. Interstellar travel, light speed, quantum spacetime, dark matter, these are the areas I can geek out on for days. Theories about the center of the universe, the existence of aliens, and black holes and the fabric of the cosmos are my favorite topics – Chandrasekhar would be proud.
Black holes fascinate me. Gravitational singularity, a single point in spacetime where infinity has a factual meaning. A cosmic body whose gravity doesn’t even allow light to pass, and can only be discovered, observed, and measured by the effect it has on its surrounding galaxies. With the mass of 10 quintillion suns, and a core so dense the only force escaping its massive power is its own radiation output (thank you Dr. Hawking). Where anyone crossing the event horizon is already dead, but the moment of their death lasts for ever, the perfect, the ultimate time travel. Possibly the beginning and the end of our universe, a supermassive hole in the fabric of space absorbing everything in its path until it finally collapses under its own gravity sending everything back out in a universe-creating blast.
How can we humans not tear up by this greatness? Why do we need unproven omnipotent entities to justify the beauty of our world, when we have such phaenomena right at the center of our own galaxy? What could possibly be more beautiful than the moment where every force in the universe converges into a single point of eternal energy?
I mean, seriously, look at the below. Isn’t that the equivalent of a galactic Sistine chapel?
Additionally, being one myself currently, I have started to ponder lately on the possibility of the existence of aliens in the universe, and whether the human organism is equiped with the mental and physical tools to notice and identify them. We certainly lack the technology to intercept and replay signals broadcasted on a huge spectrum of wavelengths, given that our species is still in our baby crib compared to the universe. Building on the Fermi paradox, it is highly likely we are not using the correct instrumentation to properly tap into the highest and lowest frequencies the rest of the Cosmos seems to be communicating in, but what can you expect from a civilization that still actively tries to destroy itself?
But I digress.
The reason for this mental exercise was drawn in parallel to my current experience in the US. I am a rather unremarkable individual from a small country full of trouble, living in “the greatest country in the world”, working for one of the biggest technological giants, during some very interesting times. Yet the average person next to me would not be able to know I am an immigrant (an alien!) in their country until I reached out to them, at which point my accent and/or my culture would immediately prove my status as a non-American. Given as well the current narrative that people like me are here to “steal local resources and destroy the American way of life” it is difficult not to admit the similarity in the specific circumstances. Would the average human not feel immediately threatened by the notion that a new type of existence for which they have no information and limited to no way of influencing is in their personal global space? It could very well be our behavior towards “aliens” of our own species that could be putting off any extra-terrestrial desires to establish contact. It may work for Texas, but I sincerely doubt the “shoot first, ask questions later” mentality would tip the scales in our favor in any transuniversal alien face-off.
#003 Oh the wonders that hide beyond our fears
I don’t always get everything right. I am not perfect, however I try. I work hard and I fail and I’m forgiven. I try again. That’s as it should be. But for too long I have found that I hate not the failure, but myself for failing. The abuse comes not from the world, but from myself. I am not sure I deserve to be happy, or even to be. I understand this isn’t as it should be, this isn’t healthy. A life of self-deprecation and self-loathing is not a worthy life, and more importantly, it is not a life I deserve. No one does.
Impostor syndrome. The fundamental inability to acknowledge, process, and mentally and emotionally accept one’s achievements. The tip of an iceberg whose massive body hides beneath the water. A water that reflects only the brightness of the white lying peaks, and vindictively hides the lack of self-esteem that lurks beneath the surface, its edges sharp and unforgivingly vicious, ready to rip the bowels of anyone that comes close enough to see a lie that isn’t there. A life lived in fear of being exposed as a fraud, a fake, a hypocrite, nothing but a shiny, priceless glory box that smugly contains a pompous, glorious nothing. A less than that never will be.
Fear manifests itself in many ways. So many, as many as the tears my pillow has bore witness to on those countless nights I was too scared to turn on the light, afraid of what other truths it would reveal. I remember the first time I truly feared I could die of this. The relentless retching that no internal monologue could alleviate, my body’s manifestation of trying to rid itself of the nothing that I felt, that I was inside. My lips turning blue from the effort to sneak in a breath between each spasm, the absolute brutality of conciously realizing I could die tonight, and the desperate, twisted peace that comes from acceptance, from that corner of my brain reminding me I have done nothing to be worthy of life for.
For years I have not dared to pay closer attention to myself, to my surroundings, scared shitless, cowardly soldiering one, hoping no one would pay attention. I never felt truly worthy of my friends, of my career, of my lovers, of my laughter, opting to hide from my life for as long as I could, lest I recall how fragile the human body is. “Fake it until you make it” was not a meaningless motto for me – it was my way of life, the axiom on which I based my very survival. I never took the time to read all the paperwork that comes with every petition for a new start, a new chance in a new world – what would seeing my shortcomings on paper have to offer, other than yet another reminder of the unworthiness that I have graciously catered to as a guest in my life?
Until today.
Today I have tangible, irrefutable proof there is land beneath the iceberg. I am not floating aimlessly in an ocean of potential threats – I have solid ground beneath my feet, and arms that can touch the sky. I would love to say that it was an accident, really, only it wasn’t. This was all me, and I faked it long and hard enough that I made it. As far as impostors go, I am the absolute best – I pretended for so long, I made my lies a reality. I faked it, and I made it.
I am worth more than my demons say.
#002 Break away
People say the first step is always the hardest.
But people don’t know.
Everyone can take the first, tiny, short step into uncharted territory. Be it by ignorance, curiosity, defiance or uncertainty, they gain a resemblance of motivation to extend a foot out of their comfort zone and move their body forward, while firmly keeping the other on the starting point. They tiptoe around in the dark, feeling the ground, sensing their surroundings, cherishing the reassurance that if things go wrong, they can just shift their weight and immediately find themselves back to base.
Safe. Secure. Protected.
Unchallenged.
It takes guts to move away from your nest, to swim far from the shore in search of the perfect seashell, to test your weaknesses and discover your limits, to listen to how your voice changes when you scream in delight and absolute despair. To look into the mirror and realize the beauty of your eyes isn’t what you want to show, but what you cannot hide.To tear down your home so you don’t retreat to what keeps hurting you, just because it’s familiar. To acknowledge without expecting appreciation. To apologize without asking for forgiveness. To be absolutely confident that you are all you’ve got, and you are capable of everything.
Everyone can take the first step.
Only the true at heart make it to the second.
#001 This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship
It has been too long since I wrote anything. Too long since I believed I could, even longer since I thought I had anything inside me worth writing about. I remember how it used to be, when I didn’t look at the screen, my eyes never left my keyboard, and all I had to do was shut up and let myself speak. How long has it been, how could I ever measure it? What would I even measure it in? Years don’t matter anymore as they should, routine and old age have cast their white sheet over all edges and peaks, and every nook and crany, every shape and shadow now looks the same. So many things have happened, so many things have changed, is it even worth counting?
Not really. All you need to know is, I am still here. Tired and bruised, disappointed and confused, walking a tight rope with all the world’s problems fighting for the privilege to knock me down, but I am taking one step at a time, taking my time, taking one breath at a time, and finaly synchronizing. I have made new friends, I have made old friends shine bright as new, and I have found a treasure that I never knew I lost, or owned to begin with. I found myself, a little glimpse of me hiding under the bed, with a lollipop stuck in my hair and smelling of apple and rain. And I owe it to myself to treasure me like I deserve.
All that is to say, I am actually doing this. Now that I know what I have, now that I am taking the right medication and all that is left is for me to care enough about myself to stick to a plan, a schedule, a workout program that works for me, with me, I feel strange, very out of place, but quite strong and stubborn in a way. I believe people call this confidence. Huh. Who would have known?
It wasn’t that hard, really. It hurt, like all beginnings should, but I was taken aback by how quickly the endorphins kicked in, the pain subsided, and I found myself hindered only by my own mind. The voice in my head, ever present, telling me it’s enough, it’s only the first day, I shouldn’t push myself, see how it hurts, hurting doesn’t mean it’s working, who are you doing this for anyway, you are awesome just the way you are, stop, just stop. Just stop. I know what I’m doing, trust me. It’s only 30 minutes, just enough for Chapter 13 of We are Legion, we are Bob to finish. I never last this long, the voices and the noises always get me. With audiobooks, I might have found my salvation.
Writing is a muscle needing constant exercise, and it’s good for the soul. My soul at least, not sure about anyone that would be reading this at some point. But hey, this is a start, and as with every start, it is a difficult one. But I do believe in me this time, I do trust me and it has been years since I last felt like I knew what I was doing. Every friendship has its foundation on trust, and I have always held that I was a fantastic friend. I am a little gunshy but I trust I will win me over in the end.
One step at a time.
A night from my past
I abhor you I condemn you ‘cos this pain
will never end
You got away without a scratch and now you’re walking
on a lucky path
I have to laugh
but you’d better watch
your back
The last drop
Το δωμάτιο ήταν σκοτεινό, υγρό και σιωπηλό. Οι τοίχοι πάλλονταν από την αποπνικτική Αυγουστιάτικη ζέστη, και ο χρόνος έμοιαζε να αναβλύζει και να κυλάει νωθρά στους τοίχους. Παρά την σιωπή και τη φαινομενική ακινησία, η ένταση ήταν απτή, και η ατμόσφαιρα έτοιμη να εκραγεί, όπως ο νεαρός αμαθής κρατά την ανάσα του πριν το πρώτο του φιλί. Ο αέρας, πηχτός και θαμπός, είχε μυρωδιά από ροδάκινο, και οι λιγοστές ηλιαχτίδες που ξέφευγαν ανάμεσα από τις γρίλιες, ζωγράφιζαν με το καυτό τους άγγιγμα, πύρινες πορείες για ανεξερεύνητα μονοπάτια στο σώμα της.
Γονατιστή πάνω στα υπόλευκα σεντόνια, νωπά με ιδρώτα και χυμούς της ζωής, η Ν. ήταν ακίνητη, αμίλητη, με το βλέμμα της καρφωμένο στο στρώμα και τα χείλη της σε μια βουβή παράκληση. Διάπλατα ανοιχτά και τεντωμένα πάνω από το σκυφτό της κεφάλι, τα χέρια της ήταν δεμένα με λευκό σατέν στον ουρανό του κρεβατιού. Τα μαλλιά της, ανακατεμένα και υγρά, μπροστά της, κολλούσαν στο μέτωπο και το σώμα της, κρύβοντας την ανάγκη που ξέφευγε από τα σμαραγδί της μάτια. Η ανάσα της ήταν πειθαρχημένη, αργή και βαθειά, και μόνο το ανεπαίσθητο τρέμουλο στα γόνατά της πρόδιδε ότι είναι ακόμα ζωντανή.
Μια γεμάτη σταγόνα ιδρώτα ξετρύπωνε που και που από τον μελαχρινό χείμαρρο των μαλλιών της, μένοντας στο λαιμό της μόνο ώσπου ένα απαλό τρεμούλιασμα από το σώμα της να την ωθήσει να κυλήσει. Όπως ξεκινά το μακρύ της ταξίδι, εξερευνώντας την σπονδυλική της στήλη της Ν., περνώντας πάνω από γρατζουνιές και δίπλα από δαγκωνιές που διακοσμούσαν το κατάλευκό της δέρμα, ένα πνιχτό βογγητό ξέφυγε από τα κατακόκκινα, σχεδόν ματωμένα χείλη της κοπέλας, μάρτυρες της αδυναμίας της να το πνίξει ξανά και ξανά. Η Ν. κράτησε την ανάσα της, η καρδιά της χτυπούσε πλέον ηχηρά στο σφριγηλό της στήθος, αλλά απτόητη η σταγόνα συνέχισε την μαρτυρική κάθοδο στην καμπύλη της μέσης της, κερδίζοντας σε όγκο καθώς πότισε το λουλουδένιο της τατουάζ, πρωτού χαθεί ανάμεσα στα ροδισμένα της μάγουλα.
Όμως εκεί κατοικούσε μια διψασμένη γλώσσα, ενεδρεύοντας στα βάθη ανάμεσα στα χείλη της, χρονοτριβόντας ανέμελα στην αρμυρή υγρασία. Ξυπνημένη γλυκά από τον αναστεναγμό, βγήκε από τη ζεστή, υγρή σπηλιά της να πιάσει τη σταγόνα με την άκρη της, και να τη σύρει πάνω στα τα πρησμένα χείλη, σε μια ερεθισμένη κλειτορίδα. Πεινασμένα δόντια έκλεισαν γύρω από το παλλόμενο κομμάτι σάρκας, και η Ν. έσφιξε τις παλάμες της γύρω από τα τεντωμένα της δεσμά, προσπαθώντας μάταια να κρατηθεί. Και καθώς η ανηλεής γλώσσα άπλωσε μεθοδικά τη σταγόνα πάνω του, μια πνιχτή κραυγή έσπασε την εκκωφαντική ησυχία.
Λες και ήχησε καμπάνα σινιάλου, η γλώσσα γλύστρησε μπροστά και τα δόντια έσφιξαν τον κλοιό τους, κάνοντας το κεφάλι της Ν. να τιναχτεί, και τα μαλλιά της να μαστιγώσουν την κυρτή της πλάτη. Δάχτυλα που ελλόχευαν πίσω της χύμηξαν στο σώμα της, εξερευνώντας το με πείσμα και χωρίς αιδώ, τρυπώνοντας σε κρυφές πτυχές και μπήγωντας τα νύχια τους σε κάθε περιοχή που κατακτούσαν. Σαν κύμα που σκάει στην ακροθαλασσιά, η γλώσσα έγλυφε συνεχώς και πιο έντονα, γράφοντας το όνομά της ξανά και ξανά στο ερεθισμένο δέρμα. Ανίκανοι πλέον να πνιγούν, ικετευτικοί αναστεναγμοί και κραυγές λύτρωσης γέμισαν το δωμάτιο, αντηχώντας για ώρα στο τελευταίο ηλιοβασίλεμα του καλοκαιριού, μέχρι η γλώσσα να νιώσει τις δονήσεις να υποχωρούν, και το τελευταίο τρέμουλο να ξεμακραίνει στο χρόνο. Αδύναμη και παραδομένη, η Ν. ένιωσε ένα πονηρό χαμόγελο να σχηματίζεται ανάμεσα στα πόδια της, και ένα δάκρυ κύλησε στα μάγουλά της. Τα δάχτυλά της χαλάρωσαν, έγειρε το κεφάλι της μπροστά ξανά, τα δόντια της ελευθέρωσαν τα ματωμένα της χείλη, και η ανάσα της επέστρεψε νικημένη στον σιωπηλό, πειθήνιο ρυθμό της.
Και μόνο τότε η γλώσσα, χορτασμένη, ικανοποιημένη, με μια τελευταία αργή κίνηση πιέζοντας από τη σχισμή ανάμεσα στα μάγουλά της ως την ηβική γραμμή, υποχώρησε ξανά μέσα της, παραμονεύοντας μέχρι την επόμενη σταγόνα.
Ήταν μια φορά ένα κάποτε, που δεν έγινε ποτέ
Κάποτε ήταν μια νότα.
Ήταν μείζονα, μα δε τη ζωγράφισε ποτέ κανείς.
Στην ηχό της ακουγόταν κόκκινο, αλλά με άρωμα από γιασεμί.
Η περηφάνειά της επέβαλε γόβα στιλέτο, και βηματισμό με στόμφο.
Μπαρόκ στακάτο, κουτσό στο πεζοδρόμιο με τις γόπες,
αλλά δεν τόλμησε ποτέ ούτε ένα βήμα.
Το μπαλκόνι της μύριζε πάντα Θεό και ανυπομονησία.
Πότιζε ξυπόλητη τα γεράνια της με φλόγες,
και τα τύλιγε με χρυσό χρόνο για να μην τα κάψει ο χιονιάς.
Το χώμα ανάμεσα στα δάχτυλά της ήταν πεντανόστιμο πασπαλισμένο σε παγωτό βανίλια.
Θα μπορούσε κάποτε να ξεθάψει το κλειδί της και να πετάξει μακρυά.
Μα σήμερα είναι ήδη adagio,
και μάλλον δε θα το μάθουμε ποτέ.
Προφητεία
“Μια μέρα κάποιος θα βρει ένα ξέφτι στον ουρανό
θα το τραβήξει και θα πέσουν όλα τα ποδήλατα των αγγέλων
όλα
το εννοώ”
Counting Stars... 